Go, Ivy, Go! (15 page)

“No, I mean identification that says you really are a magazine writer, not just someone snooping around asking nosy questions.”

I thought she had us there, because we
were
snooping, but Mac went over to the pickup and came back with a manila envelope of clippings. He was prepared to show he really was a published writer. Good thinking.
Mrs. Braxton took her time looking through the clippings and asking questions. Apparently his magazine-writing history passed inspection because she put everything back in the envelope and handed it to him.

“Thank you.”

She obviously didn’t intend to explain further, but Beth seemed suddenly uneasy that Mac might take offense at this scrutiny and decide not to write about her horses.

“Oh, Grandma, it’s okay. Mr. MacPherson isn’t like that creep who worked here a few days and then tried to steal one of Uncle Drake’s cars out of the barn.”

“I don’t have a specific assignment to do an article on Paso Finos, so at this point I can’t say in which magazine it might appear,” Mac said. “I’d planned to write the article about horse farms in this area in general, but now I think I’ll do it solely on the Braxton Paso Finos.”

Grandma Braxton nodded as if that pleased her. She didn’t smile, but she sounded somewhat more approachable when she said, “Perhaps I do tend to be overly cautious. But, as Beth mentioned, we recently had an unpleasant situation with a man I hired for yard work. He didn’t get one of the antique cars, but he did make off with a valuable show saddle.”

I let out the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Yes, Grandma was suspicious, but, blessedly, not suspicious of what we were actually doing.

“Can I go get Storm now so Mr. MacPherson can take a picture of him?” Beth asked. “He’s our stud,” she added to Mac.

“Find Wayne and let him do it,” Grandma said. Beth ran off in the direction of the stable. Grandma’s fond gaze followed her. “Beth is very good with the horses, and Storm is well mannered, but I don’t think she’s old enough to handle a stud yet.”

While Beth was looking for the foreman, Mac asked questions about why Mrs. Braxton had chosen Paso Finos as the breed to raise and show, and what her own background was with horses. I kept my mouth shut and took notes. She must have been at her son’s trial and heard me testify against him, but at the moment, invisibility, with the aid of an oversized sunhat and sunglasses, seemed to be working.

Wayne, the foreman, brought the stud out, and Beth got the mare with the new filly. I couldn’t tell if the filly was “awesome,” but she was cute and frisky. Mac took dozens of digital photos. Of the horses and Beth riding them, of course, but also the farm buildings and the new horse trailer and Grandma Braxton herself. She fussed a little about putting on some nicer clothes for photos, but Mac assured her this image was exactly what he was looking for, a real working horsewoman. He told her he’d show her a copy of the article before he sent it anywhere for publication. Good. That gave us reason to return if we needed to do more snooping.

We were just finishing up when a vehicle roared down the driveway, big and black, with tinted windows, blocky but sleek, and as menacing as a tank. Even I, with my limited vehicle-identification skills, could tell it was a big-bucks Hummer. It skidded to a stop next to the corral. Two men got out. I didn’t recognize the one in ostrich-leather boots and cowboy hat, but, even though I hadn’t seen him since the trial, I knew the driver instantly. The appearance of someone threatening to turn you into roadkill does tend to stick in your memory. Drake Braxton. Big and beefy, heavy-set, thick-necked, beady-eyed. More menacing than the oversized vehicle he was driving.

I looked for a hole to crawl into.
A tall building to hide behind. Nothing. I ducked my head and made myself busy stuffing the scratch pad in my purse and hoping for a full cloak of invisibility. One that covered Mac too.

Grandma Braxton scowled at her son. “I swear, I am going to have speed bumps installed on that driveway. Big ones.”

“You do that, Mom. And the axle on that Corvette of yours will be the first casualty. Your driving makes mine look like a snail next to a race horse.” Drake gave her a jovial smile even though I heard a caustic edge to the words.

“At least I’m not racking up speeding tickets.”

Drake looked as if he were about to make a retort, but he managed to keep smiling even as he gritted his jaw. He turned to the man with him. “Is your mother like this? When I’m old and gray, mine will probably still be telling me to eat my vegetables and wipe my feet at the door.”

The exchange between Drake and Grandma Braxton could be affectionate family teasing. Drake was trying to make it look that way, but that sharp edge to the conversation suggested some real animosity.

“How come you’re here today?” Grandma added. “No business trip?”

“Look, Mom, I know you’re unhappy because I didn’t make it to your birthday barbecue, and Tyler couldn’t be here either, because I needed him to pilot the plane. I’m sorry about that. But you know how important these meetings are—”

“Of course. Business comes first.” Congenial words. Sarcastic tone. A crack in the Braxton family solidarity? Interesting.
“You used to put family first, but now—”

“I said I’m sorry. We won’t keep you from whatever you’re doing,” Drake said stiffly. His gaze flicked over both Mac and me without interest, ra
nking our level of importance down there with the horse droppings in the corral. Good. Where Drake was concerned, that was exactly where I wanted my level of importance to be. “We’re just here to look at the ’75 Thunderbird. I’m thinking about trading it on a Porsche Mr. Rawlings here has available.”

My mouth opened to say something. He had a ’75 Thunderbird out in the barn? Oh, I’d like to see it. My old Thunderbird was a ’75, and I still had nostalgic feelings about it. But Mac silenced me with a jab of elbow.

Rescued before my curiosity got us in trouble.
Thank you, Mac.
That Thunderbird I remembered so fondly was the very one the Braxtons had tried to blow up down in Arkansas. My showing interest in this Thunderbird might light a dangerous bulb in Drake’s memory.

“You’re not thinking about putting another car in there, I hope,” Grandma said. “You never said anything about keeping all those cars in there all this time.”

“No, Mom. When I get the Porsche, it won’t be sitting in the barn. I’ll be driving it.”

“I wish you’d just get all the cars out of there. Sam needs the space for his new boat.”

Sam. It took me a moment to organize the demolition derby of family names in my head. Sam, the twin brother of Tyler, now sole owner of Zollinger Brothers Computers, both sons of Bo Zollinger.

“You bought Sam a new boat?” Drake asked.

“Sam works hard, but he puts family first,” Grandma Braxton snapped. “And we need more space in the barn for hay too.”

“More hay for more horses? At least the cars just sit there. Not eating truckloads of expensive hay or producing more truckloads of manure.” As if suddenly realizing the cowboy-booted Mr. Rawlings might take offense at this attitude toward horses, Drake laughed and added, “Just kidding, of course. The horses are great for the kids.”

“Uncle Drake, this is Mr. MacPherson,” Beth interrupted. “He’s going to write a story about our horses for a magazine. With lots of pictures.”

An introduction was the last thing we wanted, but I knew Beth was trying to distract Drake and protect her beloved horses from his “money suck” attitude about them.

The introduction startled Mac too, but he managed a quick recovery “A beautiful establishment Mrs. Braxton has here. With a very accomplished young horsewoman assisting.”

Drake nodded, but he was looking at us now. Really
looking.
At Mac for a moment, then at me for a much longer moment, and I didn’t feel at all invisible. His expression didn’t register recognition. He surely wasn’t expecting to see
me
here. But there was definitely a puzzled, do-I-know-this-old-lady? wrinkle across his forehead. Was he seeing me
behind the sunglasses? Had my invisibility fallen away like the flabby pounds on some woman in a TV weight-loss ad?

“This is Mrs. MacPherson,” Beth said, as if even she caught something beyond the normal in her uncle’s gaze. “She helps him with notes and research.”

“Thanks again,” Mac said. “Nice meeting you,” he added to Drake and then spun me around as if I were a rusty mannequin.

Surely Drake wouldn’t remember where he’d seen me, I assured myself during what seemed a mile-long hike to the pickup. All little old ladies look alike, right? Unless you keep a photo of a specific one on your nightstand, and every night you look at it and vow
You’re roadkill, lady.
I’m gonna get you.

We got in the pickup. Mac turned it around and headed down the driveway as sedately as any geezer sightseer. I risked a peek back over the seat. Drake Braxton and his cowboy-hatted friend had started around the corral to get to the barn.

Big flood of relief.
I was forgotten.

But then Drake turned and looked back at our departing pickup. From this distance I couldn’t see the expression on his beefy face, so all I could do was wonder:

Was he still trying to remember why I looked vaguely familiar?
      

Or was he thinking,
hey, didn’t we kill that old lady once already?

Chapter Thirteen

“I take it that was the notorious Drake Braxton?” Mac said when we were back on the main road.

“In person.” One of Drake’s sons and one of Bo’s sons had been with him that day he threatened me at the courthouse. I doubt I’d recognize either of them, but I’d know Drake if I saw him across the room at a thousand-thug convention.

“I got the impression that Mrs. Braxton wasn’t any too happy about Drake’s new business, whatever it is,” Mac said.

“Is there any way we can take advantage of that?”

“I’ll have to think about it. Do you think he recognized you?”
      

“I’m not sure.”

Although I was sure I might be smarter if I filled the gas tank on the motorhome and made a run for it rather than buying new furniture for the house and planting myself here.

But this was
home
. And I couldn’t let the Braxtons get away with killing Lillian.

“I wonder what kind of business Drake could have over in Arkansas or Illinois?” I asked. He’d been into construction and land development with his Braxton Construction business when I tangled with the clan before.

“I’ll do some more digging on the internet,” Mac said.

***

We had an unexpected surprise back at the house, and this time it was a
nice
surprise. I ran across the street and through the open gate. Magnolia dropped the plastic bag of clothes she was carrying from motorhome to house and threw out her arms.

“Ivy!” She enfolded me in one of her BFF hugs. Best friends forever, in grand-niece Sandy’s current vocabulary. It had been months since we’d seen each other.

“I’m so glad to see you!” I said a bit breathlessly. When Magnolia hugs, you know you’ve been hugged. “But I had no idea you were coming. What are you doing here? How long are you staying?”

“It just seemed like a good time to come home.”

Magnolia was in one of her usual voluminous, swirly outfits that tend to magnify rather than conceal her imposing shape. The oversized flowers printed on it echoed her name. Her hair piled high atop her head was gray now, not one of her usual more flamboyant shades of pink or red. Ah, but Magnolia’s gray was nothing like my inconspicuous possum gray; hers had a definite glitter that on closer inspection I realized came from some kind of spray-on stuff. Could I do that? Looked great on her. Although on me it would probably have people wondering if I’d acquired some virulent
new version of dandruff.

“We may be here for some time,” she added.

“You’ve given up on finding more members of your family/?”

“I’ve decided using the internet may be the way to do family research these days, and I can do that from here.”

“You know how to use a computer now?” I asked doubtfully.

“No. But how difficult can it be?” She waved a dismissive hand. Magnolia is never shy about meeting new challenges. This is the woman who, with no previous experience, joined a chorus line out in Colorado and shimmied her way to a spectacular performance. “Oh, I’m just so glad to be home! You are too, aren’t you?”

“The neighborhood has changed since I left. So many houses are vacant or rentals now. I’m not sure anyone I knew is still here.”

“What we need is a good barbecue to get everyone together,” Magnolia declared. “I’ll get on it right away. Oh, I didn’t have a chance to tell you, but after you called, our mail finally caught up with us. That same company made an offer on our place.”

“What do you and Geoff think?”

Behind us, Magnolia’s husband Geoff and Mac were shaking hands and talking motorhome gas mileage. They were good friends too, but they didn’t go way back the way Magnolia and I did. Geoff is a contrast to Magnolia’s flamboyance; he’s compact and wiry and a little reserved. But underneath that mild-mannered and rather colorless exterior, he’s solid as a battleship anchor, and admirably tolerant of Magnolia’s quirks. If Magnolia want
ed to look for family on the moon, Geoff would surely start inquiring about rocket rides.

Another dismissive wave from Magnolia now. “We’ve discussed it, and Geoff says it’s a generous offer. But I can’t imagine our ever actually
selling
. You’re not, are you?” Her eyebrows, full-figured as the rest of her, lifted in mild alarm.

“I just today bought a new sleeper-sofa for the house,” I assured her. The implication, of course, being that no one who buys a sleeper-sofa is on the move. I sneaked a side glance at Mac. I really should tell him before—

Too late. A van with the furniture store’s name on the side was right now turning into my driveway. I headed across the street. “Hey, come over for dinner this evening, okay?” I called back to Magnolia. “We have a lot to talk about.”